


fugue (tomorrow’s music)

by yoongisapphic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, Is It Major Character Death If They Come Back Alive?, More characters to be added as they appear - Freeform, The Author Tries To Stick To Timelines, and i mean realllly squint, maybe a lil bit of fon/skull if you squint, or maybe regulus black is skull, reborn is pretty ooc i think?, regulus/reborn was An Accident but we’ll see, skull is regulus black, the good ol’ amnesia trope, this was an accident, two of my bois for the price of one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-18 18:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14219337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoongisapphic/pseuds/yoongisapphic
Summary: And here’s the thing: Regulus Arcturus Black died at seventeen, more alone than ever, in so much pain he was grateful for its end--and was reborn thirty three years later, in the body of his same self, now under the name of Skull de Morte.





	1. that little king wears half a crown

Regulus blinks, eyes adjusting to the harsh light above him. The pain is gone, all of it, aside from a slight buzzing in his head. He can see a white ceiling above him, no longer damp dark rock, which means he’s no longer in the Cave. He starts, and sits up, ignoring the fog in his head _\- the horcrux, the inferi, where-_

There’s a man sitting in a dark corner of the room. His face is shadowed by an odd hat, and a strange, small dragon-like creature is perched on his shoulder. He’s wearing strange, unfashionable clothes, no robes in sight and Regulus swallows hard as the man looks up at him, void-black eyes seeming to have no end to them.

He must be an Aubrey, Regulus thinks. They’re famous for their eyes and besides, who else would be waiting for him but some Aubrey lackey?

“You’re feeling alright, then?” The man asks expectantly in Italian, which is Regulus’ fourth language, and to his knowledge isn’t a language he’s heard an Aubrey speak before. Perhaps the man is of the House of Wilkes. Their blood is weak but they’re always eager to please. Notoriously attractive, too, a description that serves the man well.

 

“What happened, exactly?” Regulus demands, desperately trying to mask the panic in his eyes. He speaks in Italian back, to be polite, but it makes his head throb more and he isn’t sure it’s a good idea to keep translating. He glances around the room, notes the quality carpets and drapes, no matter how outdated they are, and is relieved that he is at least in a pureblood house. Imagine waking up in a pile of muggle filth.

He means, of course, how he was found in the cave, whether the Lord wants him dead, if his Mother knows what he’s done, if his Brother knows what he’s done, but the man frowns and says, “You fell down the stairs. You’ve forgotten?”

Regulus opens his mouth to shout something, an inner voice already reprimanding him for seeming ungraceful in any way, but finds himself empty of words. He closes his mouth again, and something catches at his throat. _What about the cave?_ He wants to ask. _The locket?_

He thinks back, tries to answer the question. _You’ve forgotten?_ So the man had been there, had seen him fall down the stairs. He knew the man in front of him, somehow. The thought makes his head pound.

“Speak English, please.” He murmurs, holding a hand to his forehead. The man seems amused, somehow. He furrows his brows, thinking back. The last thing he remembers is lying there and-

-and he’d been so _sure_ he was going to _die_. He was going to die there, _alone_ , _afraid_ , the inferi were dragging him _down_ , and it hurt so _much_ -

He blinks.

“I’m not dead, am I.” It’s not really a question, more of a statement, but it worries the man a lot, he can tell. There’s a certain shift in the light of those hell-dark eyes that means he’s worried. Regulus must know him very well to be able to deduce that.

“Skull, you’re- you _can’t_ die, remember?” The man has a definite note of panic in his voice, there, and Regulus groans, kneading his eyes with his palms.

 _Remember_.

That’s just the word, isn’t it. There’s a lot he seems to have forgotten. Skull, then. That’s a name. _His_ name; apparently. And he can’t die. Can’t remember, either. What a riddle. He’d never been offered Ravenclaw, only Hufflepuff or Slytherin, loyalty or Family and he’d chosen-

Well.

He’d chosen in the end, hadn’t he?

But.

“I can. I have. Died, I mean.” He blurts out, and realises it’s true a second afterwards. “I thought- I mean, I must have, really.” _Kreacher_ , he wonders, _what happened to Kreacher?_ He couldn’t have told anyone, not with the House Elf Vows still in place, and he had left no hint he was going to do something stupid, except-

Sirius.

He’d been so full of grief at the betrayal of his brother, the feeling that Sirius would never accept him- he’d just been so desperate to tell him what he was going to do, that his little brother would follow in his footsteps and would fight against the Lord he’d been raised to love. He’d left a letter, in his neatest handwriting and most expensive ink, written with his finest quill on his most rare parchment. It had only said how much he regretted, how much he loved. He hadn’t said specifically what he was going to do, but...

Perhaps it had been enough. He focuses on the man again.

“Did Sirius send you? Did he save me?” He asks, but the man looks so confused, like he doesn’t know what he’s on about, and that’s when it clicks with Regulus, that this man wears strange clothes, has a strange pet, looks like a pureblood but has slightly odd features, even the room isn’t quite as clean as any manor with a brood of house elves ought to be-

This man is a _muggle_. A filthy creature with no knowledge of anything, little more worth than a gnome, and Regulus feels a surge of indescribable pity well up inside him.

“Oh you poor thing, you must be so confused.” He mutters, glancing over the man’s worried countenance, and then freezes again because this muggle recognises him. He knows this muggle and-

and it’s _unthinkable_ but Regulus can’t quite dismiss the possibility that-

Had he been _living_ with these things?

It’s a disgusting thought to entertain, but even so...

“Skull, look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I think you have amnesia, or something, alright? So I’m going to call Verde, and he’ll see what he can do.” Regulus looks blankly at the Muggle. Verde means green, doesn’t it? But why fluctuate from English to French mid-sentence? He’s honestly quite surprised that a Muggle knows about amnesia. He hadn’t thought they’d have the capacity for comprehending the mind as thoroughly as magical folk. “Right, you won’t remember Verde. Well, he’s a doctor. A scientist, really. What do you remember, exactly?” Regulus clicks his tongue disdainfully. He doesn’t know either of those words, but assumes they’re job titles, perhaps something similar to a Healer, if the mention of amnesia means anything.

“I know neither you, nor this place. I do not know the one you call Skull, either, so perhaps that answers your questions.” He tries to keep the snark out of his voice, but its a coping mechanism he’d never quite managed to train out of himself. The man makes an odd noise at the back of his throat.

“Perhaps you should introduce yourself, then.” He says, eyes light with disbelief. Again, Regulus doesn’t think the Muggle is easily read, but something in him is very accustomed to discerning this particular man’s emotions from his tiny tells.

 _I believe it is polite to give one’s name before asking the other’s,_ he wants to say, but a shrill voice in the back of his head chides him that _it’s not polite to correct others, either_ , so he simply gives the Muggle- who probably doesn’t know better anyway- a disapproving stare. “Regulus Arcturus Black, scion and presumptive Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. And you?”

The man stiffens a little, face paler than it was a moment ago. “The name’s Reborn. World’s Greatest Hitman.” His voice is clipped, and he stares unflinchingly at Regulus, and then without warning strides to the door and walks out, calling out the name he’d mentioned earlier, then muttering something outside with an unseen figure.

He’s shockingly attractive for a Muggle, Regulus can see it when he walks, and perhaps his eyes linger a little too long because the hitman (and he didn’t know what that was, could it be something similar to a hitwizard?) gives him an odd look.

The floorboard outside creaks under the weight of another person that he doesn’t recognise, a green-haired man (is that natural for Muggles?) wearing an odd white jacket that reminds him of a Healer’s robes. Yes, perhaps this was Verde.

“You remember nothing?” He monotones, and Regulus frowns indignantly.

“I remember plenty, thank you. I just don’t know how I got here.” His voice is high and haughty, he can tell. He doesn’t know why he’s so offended at the thought of not remembering when it’s something he’s obviously going to need help with, and his argument is weak even to his own ears.

“He’s not faking it, Verde. I don’t think that little trip could have done so much damage. He can’t be missing that much memory, can he?” And realisation dawns, slowly, and horrifically, that he hasn’t asked exactly how long its been.

So he does.

He asks the Doctor-Muggle how long they’ve known each other and his face is grave.

“If you remember nothing,” He says, “Then it may be a little of a shock.”

Regulus’ frown deepens, but he braces himself as the hitman-Muggle speaks.

_Thirty two years._

It has to be some sort of sick joke, Sirius taking pranks too far once again.

It _has_ to be.

The words blow the air from his lungs. He can’t be- he does the Arithmancy- almost _fifty_. It’s impossible!

_What of Sirius? What about his parents? The Lord- was Voldemort vanquished? Would anyone know he was alive? Was anyone left that would care if he was?_

Kreacher, perhaps, if the ageing old Elf was still alive. He only had to call the name and his good friend and servant would come to him, but he couldn’t in front of these Muggles, for fear of blowing their tiny, underdeveloped minds and rendering them mentally disfigured.

To add insult to injury, he had supposedly known this Muggle for over thirty years, which implies he has been staying among these dirty creatures for most of his life.

“I-“ It’s all too much. But they have no reason to lie. He feels older. There’s something nagging at him, but the throb in the base of his skull takes priority. “I can’t be-“

The Doctor-Muggle looks at him pityingly, and Regulus remembers that look from someone with red clothes _and dark hair and tanned skin, flowing movements and powerful muscles,_ but no Gryffindor at all. Someone he knows, but not as Regulus. The throb turns into more of a buzz, and he blacks out, the world fading into nothingness—


	2. to end it all is a heavy fate

Regulus (or perhaps Skull) wakes up to Yuni leaning over him anxiously, Flame drenching the atmosphere, gently washing over his body. He flinches away from it instinctively, because Regulus had never liked being touched, and Skull is far too used to fire _burning_ him.

She leans back, surprise lighting her eyes as she realises he’s awake and opens her mouth to call the others, but Skull shakes his head.

“Not yet, Yuni.” He croaks, voice thick from disuse and he wonders how long he’s been out, exactly. Not like the first time, when he couldn’t remember being Skull at all, it’s just that he wonders how long its been since his two sets of memories combined so suddenly that the stress of it all had knocked him out. His Sky ( _although something in him fights at that, something points out that he doesn’t necessarily know that there’s not another Sky he’s subconsciously bonded to, something pleads him to find them_ ) bites her lower lip, and he smiles wanly.

“I’m fine, _bambino_.” He throws in the pet name for reassurance, that yes, he is Skull, and that this time he knows he is Skull. “I just need a minute.”

Yuni smiles at him, and he pauses before returning it. He needs to find out the current situation of Magical Britain, and indeed Magical everywhere else, but if it has already gone thirty-odd years without him, he’s sure it can go another week or two. He needs to readjust to the Arcobaleno, and find a way to quiet the voice that shouts what vermin they are. He needs _balance_.

Yuni glances towards the doorway eagerly, and Regulus sighs and nods. She grins, running from the room in excitement, calling “He’s awake!”

Instantly Fon is there, and then Lal, and then Colonello, although the two Rains are somewhat less eager than Yuni herself, and Verde trails behind them, yawning. She rushes back next to his bedside.

“The other two are out on missions.” She explains apologetically. He nods in understanding.

Colonello sneers at him, joking “You’ve been out for a week, Lackey. Can’t take a hit?”

Regulus freezes, and then sits up in the bed.

His pureblood upbringing doesn’t bother with pretending not to recognise the veiled threat for what it is. This Muggle is baiting him into blind anger by insulting his capabilities, which implies certain things about his bloodline. It’s a commonly-used tactic in the Wizarding political world, but unfortunately for the blond, he’s had training against specifically this kind of subtle attack. All he needs to do is channel Salazar himself, and deliver an undeniably open threat. This way, he doesn’t lose face, opening a duel on his own terms, and besides, at this point, if a duel was initiated, Regulus was expected to win anyway, due to his superior heritage.

He forces the blood in his veins to run icy and he straightens his spine into a rigid line, head lifting so that he can look at the dirty peasant down his nose.

“Insult me again, you _filthy Muggle_ , and I’ll have your head _mounted_ as the newest addition to my Aunt’s collection.” He hisses, eyes flashing violet as his Flame rises defensively inside of him. Colonello’s mouth is wide open in shock, and Regulus is somewhat mollified, but then he sees the look of anxiety on Yuni’s face and he feels... _not good_. He can’t rationalise the sinking disappointment in his heart, but he _can_ compare it to Sirius’ hard grey eyes as he pointedly refused to acknowledge his speaking at all on the night of his Sorting into Slytherin.

He blinks.

It was... too easy. 

No duel proposition in sight.

Colonello looked scandalised and, looking around, so did the others, although Fon was far more subtle with it, the dumbfounded expression hidden under a serene mask. Skull’s memories swim to the surface as Regulus glances at him, blurred years of pining and lust, and an internalised fear of rejection and a sense of _wrong_ at loving a man. Regulus does not share this view. He’s always liked men, has always been open about liking men, and it’s never been a problem. Skull, however, must have been taught that it was wrong, and indeed a memory flashes before his eyes of someone being _stoned, how brutal these Muggles are_ , before his eyes. He blinks, clearing his head, and ignores the open-mouthed sputtering of Colonello in favour of smoothly tracing the jawline of the World’s Strongest Storm with his eyes.

Even knowing about the Arcobaleno now what he does, he still thinks Reborn is the most attractive in the group, despite obvious personality issues, and wonders why exactly Skull fell for Fon so hard. Then again, Fon _had_ been the kindest to him, by which he means Fon had not been a perpetrator, in any case.

He blinks, and picks at the loose fitting t-shirt he’s wearing, a deep purple, and grimaces. Muggle clothes are extremely odd, and he feels at once a stranger to their synthetic-ey feel, and as though they’re the most comfortable things in the world. He longs for a good pair of Monsieur Malkin’s robes, certainly.

He pulls the covers off himself and gingerly checks for injuries. Seeing none, he sweeps his legs onto the floor and steadily puts some weight on them. Everything seems fine, until he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and groans.

“By Morgana’s grave, I’d forgotten about the tattoo.” He cringes, brushing a thumb against the purple tear mark on his cheek. The very permanent purple tear mark on his cheek. He could glamour it, of course, but it had been too long for him to get rid of it completely. He fingers the piercings for a second, wincing at his poor choices. There was a chain from his lip to his ear, for Merlin’s sake!

“Great Salazar, if Sirius could see me now. A motorcycle, to boot.” He mutters, disgust pulling his lip into a sneer. He turns back to face the others.

“As I’m sure you’re all aware, I’ve recovered my childhood memories.” He stops and scans their faces; disregarding the shock, it does seem that they know at least that much. “As such, I have some long-awaited business to attend to. First of all, I wish to convey with upmost clarity that I will no longer be tolerating the sort of disrespect you have been affording he who you knew as Skull.”

He pauses again, makes sure he’s been heard and- perhaps more importantly- listened to.

“Good. Secondly, I’d rather be referred to by my christian name, and that would be Regulus.” This time he doesn’t wait for any sort of response. “Much appreciated.”

Fon swims into his view again, and momentarily he’s distracted by the curve of his collar bone as it disappears underneath his _changshan_. He realises he’s staring and blinks.

“Well then, _Regulus_.” Lal stresses, clucking her tongue. “You are staying here, right?”

Something in him screams in rage at the impudent offer to stay in this hovel, with these pests. Regulus shoves it into the deepest recesses of his mind, and tells it to pipe down and mind its own business.

They are Muggles, and the worst sort, too, but they’re interesting. Besides, Regulus is kind of invested in them now, what with staying with them for such a long time and all, and anyway it’s not like anyone’s ever going to find out.

_Everyone thinks he’s dead._

He exhales shakily. “For the moment, yes.” He replies, watching cautiously for her reaction. He’s glad Viper isn’t here. The Mist has a tendency to project people’s thoughts onto a wall behind them, and Regulus does not want to imagine the looks on all their faces if they were to see what he’s been thinking these last few minutes.

“Should we give you some space, Sk- Regulus?” Yuni asks warily, eyes roaming his figure like a worried mother hen, and for _Slytherin’s sake_ she’s just a child, she shouldn’t have to be worrying about these things. He smiles at her. It’s a little tighter than he means it to be.

“If you would, Miss Yuni.” He agrees, and one by one they all leave except Verde, who has stood silent for all of it. The scientist raises an eyebrow at him when he looks the man up and down in bewilderment, and then gives a heaving sigh and says the one sentence Skull would never have expected from the man who had always been so hellbent on experiments and so adamant in his dismissal of any mention of the fantastical or the miraculous.

“So you’re that missing Death Eater, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Who knows if I’ll ever finish Tacenda? Not me. 
> 
> Who knows if this will ever get a second part? Also not me.
> 
> Thanks for reading anyway.
> 
> (● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾


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